


I See You Left A Mark, Up And Down The Skin

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Series: I Won't Let You Fall Apart [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom Sam Winchester, Ex Sex, F/M, Longing, Missing someone, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 06:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: You miss him.





	I See You Left A Mark, Up And Down The Skin

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously titled "For Whom The Bell Tolls" and then I git other ideas.

You miss him.

Miss being wet from his touch and his mere presence. You miss the way he looks at you, the way he talks to you, the way he cherishes you, the way he makes you feel protected.

Sometimes he calls you baby, sometimes you’re his whore, sometimes you’re his hero and savior. But he always loves you, wants you, understands you.

You miss the way he’d tell you off, tell you when you were being a brat or just plain idiotic.

You wonder if he misses you.

Then you get the text.

It says: “Hope you’re doing well and having a wonderful holiday.” You take a full six-and-a-half hours to reply.

“I miss you,” you say. You know you shouldn’t push. You’ve agreed, after all, that this is the way it has to be. There’s no reason to rehash the conversation.

Within minutes, his reply is simple: “miss you too…”

So he does.

He misses you, too.

Does he miss your smile, your skin, your scent? Does he miss your voice? Your touch? Does he miss the way you used to make grilled cheese sandwiches with pickles at noon when you were both too hungover to leave your bed?

The way you’d watch movies and cuddle and fuck the day away until you fell asleep wrapped in each other.

You fought sometimes. About stupid things, usually your attitude and your “smart mouth.” He’d tell you to mind yourself, your manners. Later he’d bend you over his knee, spank you till you were slick and writhing, fuck you hot and dirty on the kitchen floor.

“What do you miss about me?” you decide to push a little. He’s probably a million miles away from you; what could he do about it besides ignore you.

As you wait for a reply, you pour a glass of wine. It’s got legs, as they say, tears - garnet red and slowly falling. You glance down at your phone and you see the little bubble that indicates he’s formulating an answer.

“You know what I miss,” is his reply, and your breath shudders.

You pause, staring at your screen, second-guessing your choice to push him again. But he admitted he misses you, right? And you do know what it is that he misses.

“You sure you wanna do this right now?” he asks.

You shiver in the glow of your phone screen then take a sip. Before circling your kitchen island, you balance the full glass between fingers and thumb and tuck the mouth of the bottle into your palm. As you make your way to your sofa, the green glass of the bottle catches the flickering light from the fireplace as it gently swings in your grip.

“Hello?” he sends another message before you have a chance to reply.

“I’m here,” you dictate into your phone’s mic and send the message. “And, yes, I want to do this.”

Typing bubble appears, then, “alright.”

You sigh with relief, burrow into the cushions and set the bottle on the coffee table. And you wait.

“Ok I’m alone…” pops on the screen. “Where are you?”

“On my sofa,” you answer. “In front of the fire.”

You want to tell him everything, want to hear his voice, but you haven’t had quite enough liquid courage to push him that far.

“I want a picture,” he says.

You let go a shaky breath, bite your lip to keep from whining – even though no one can hear – position yourself just right and snap a selfie. Your hair’s a bit of a mess after a long day at work, your thin tank top is bunched around your rib cage, slightly exposing your belly and your sleep shorts are hiked up.

You send the image and wait for his reply.

“Hmm, look at you, girl,” he says. “Look at those pretty lips and tits. Pull your top up so I can see them better.”

You whimper as you pull the front of your tank top up and over your breasts, stretch it out. You finish the rest of your very large glass of wine in two gulps before settling back into the cushions and snapping another pic and sending it to him.

“How’s that?” you ask, breath bated for his praise.

“So good,” he replies. “Show me more.”

You take another deep breath, sit back up and pour another healthy glass of wine, take a big gulp then set the glass aside within reach. You quickly push your shorts down to your knees, lie back and hold the phone overhead. The pic you send to him this time gets a simple, “fuck” in reply.

“Yeah?”

You think about the last time you were with him, fresh off angelic possession, wired, raw as an exposed nerve. He was aggressive, animalistic and rough, borderline uncaring, and it turned you all the way out and on.

You squeeze your thighs together and shift your weight a little.

“Do you have any idea what I wanna do to you right now?” he asks. “You and that body and that hot little mouth.”

You moan and sink further into the cushions. “God… I want you in my mouth.”

“Bet you’re wet right now,” he says. “Tell me about it.”

You tell him you’re slick as melted caramel. You tell him that you wish he could hear how wet you are, taste you, use his hands on you.

“Get something to fuck yourself with,” he says. “Record it. I wanna hear it.”

You glance around your darkened loft, the soft glow of fire and candles dancing across the walls, but no other living thing to hear you or see you. You do as you’re told, reach for the basket under your couch and pull out the largest of your dildos, the one that makes you both crazy. He loves watching you take it and you love the way it feels. Now, it serves to make you long for him more.

In no time, you’re sliding it along your slit, rolling it, nudging at your entrance; then you hit record. You whine on his name, close your eyes and imagine him there, imagine his cock, pressing insistently.

“I need you,” you whisper. “God, I want you  _right here_.” You punctuate the words by thrusting the toy hard.

Your phone buzzes in your hand and you glance at the screen.

“Send it. Now.”

You sigh heavy and loud and hit send, drop the phone to the cushion next to you and work yourself with both hands, slamming the toy up against your g-spot and rubbing furiously over your clit.

His messages start coming again, but you can’t stop using your toy.

“Shit, you’re ready for me, aren’t you? Take a picture. I wanna see it.”

You do him one better and hit video, train the screen right where you’re soaking the fabric of your sofa.

“Need you,” you whisper. “No one fucks me like you do, Sammy. No one.  _Oh, god_.” You punctuate the last words with the hammering of the toy.

Then you come hard and long, imagining his lips and teeth on you, his hand around your throat, holding you down, feeling sweat drip down your arched back. As you try to catch your breath, you roll to your side and send the video.

You reach for your wine and finish it, pull the throw over your sweat-slick and sated form. You try to wait for his reply, but you pass out, blissed and buzzed with your phone in your hand.

When you wake, the inside of your mouth is sticky, your head throbbing. You reach for your blessedly insulated water bottle and gulp down the cool contents then fall back into the cushions and pull the fluffy throw over your face.

Then there’s a knock on your door. You don’t know what time it is, but you can tell it’s early, so you try to ignore whoever’s at the door. Then the knocking persists.

You groan and toss the cover aside, hissing when the cold air assaults your bare skin so you resituate your pajamas, run your fingers through your hair and wrap up in the throw before making your way to your door.

When you peek through the curtains, you gasp at what –  _who_  you find standing on the other side. “Oh, my god,” you whisper to yourself as you unlock the door with shaking hands and palms beginning to sweat.

You twist the doorknob then step back away from the door, letting him push his way inside.

You’d forgotten just how big he is. He fills the door, fills the space you’re breathing in, looms over you. Maybe you didn’t forget. Maybe you’re just basking in it like sunshine after days of rain.

“You disappeared on me last night,” he says, quietly closing the door behind him, never taking his eyes off of you. “You got yours with  _that toy_  and just left me hangin’.”

“Sam, what,” you breathe, shaking your head. “What’re you doing here? I thought we said-”

“Drop the blanket,” he says, shrugging out of his coat. “And the innocent act while you’re at it.”

You breathe out long and low, lower your gaze and obey.


End file.
